


Filtered

by akire_yta



Series: prompt ficlets [434]
Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 17:47:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10576341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akire_yta/pseuds/akire_yta
Summary: based off a post ontumblr over yonder of the Main 6+Instagram





	

**Author's Note:**

> written ages ago but somehow not brought across...whoops?

His first sign that something was up was the queue of notifications in his private message folder. Scott has just come off back-to-back rescues, and with his hair still damp from the shower, he’d sat down at his desk intending just to make sure nothing was actively on fire at TI before he crawled into bed and slept at least nine hours.

But the number twelve, in its discreet little bubble tagged to the corner of the mail icon had caught his eye. That was the folder for the ‘public’ Scott Tracy, the one who was an heir and a playboy and definitely not an elite pilot with a secretive rescue organisation. It caught the occasional message from a college friend, an invitation to a swanky party too good to be directed through normal channels.

Never twelve messages at once. Scott glanced dutifully over the subject headings in his TI account, but there was nothing that couldn’t wait until morning. Curiousity gnawing at him now, Scott clicked the personal folder’s icon.

Notifications, from the social media accounts that Scott had set up under Lady P’s careful direction and unending pressure.

They were all, nominally at least, public figures. As Penny had argued, over and over until they had given in, having nothing out there would just make people even more curious. Just a taste, she had argued.

And so they had all learned to stock up on photos when they were on downtime, to carefully feed into the society machine to maintain the illusion of layabout playboys, being wastrels in their own private paradise. Scott couldn’t remember the last time he’d had downtime, let alone managed a post. So why all the notifications?

Like he was reaching in to deactivate a bomb, Scott opened his account. The photos stacked in neat grids were all pretty innocuous, cloudy blue skies and steaming dark coffees in bright white mugs. Artsy closeups with clever, cryptic captions. The last photo that he remembered himself posting was a long scroll down the page.

Scott tapped his comm, scrolling back to the top as his call connected. “Thunderbird Five, what’s up Scott?”

“John, have you hacked my Instagram?” Even though this was an audio-only connection, Scott could picture the face John was making in the weighted moment before he spoke again.

“I forgot you even had an…wait, hold on.” There was a brief, muffled silence, then John was back. “Scott, are you there?” He left no pause for Scott to answer before he continued in a voice that was an echo of their own father’s. “Eos has something she needs to explain. And apologize for.”

Scott still wasn’t entirely comfortable with the AI, and her voice still surprised him every time he heard it alongside his brother’s. “Hello Scott. I…” and there was, in the voice, a flash of resistance that was an echo of John. “I apologize for hacking your really too simple password.”

“Eos!” John chided.

Scott put his hand over his mouth so that no sound would be caught by his mic. “Why are you posting pictures on my Instagram, Eos?”

“Not just yours,” she said quickly. “You have all been somewhat slack in updating your covers. I do not sleep; I needed something to occupy my time. This was an intriguingly creative challenge, and one that also serves to protect International Rescue.” There was a longer pause this time before Eos added petulantly. “I won’t apologize for that.”

Scott had clicked onto his feed. His brother’s accounts were liberally scattered across his timeline, photos of books and boots and interesting rocks. She’d even tailored the spelling and grammar for each brother. “You did all this, Eos?”

“Yes.”

John sighed. “Do I want to know where you’re getting the pictures from?”

Eos’ tone was impish now. “No. You do not.”

Scott couldn’t help his chuckle. “Ok, Eos. You should have asked, but…” he remembered John’s lecture, of treating Eos as he would any other rational, self-aware person. “Do you want to keep running the accounts?”

“Yes. I enjoy the challenge. Follower count is a crude metric of success, but it does carry with it a certain measure of…satisfaction.” Her tone twisted, as if putting words around a new sensation.

Scott’s bed was calling to him. “All right. I want you to tell the others what you have done, and ask them what they want,” he decided. “But you can keep running my account, Eos.”

“Thankyou, Scott. I will endeavour to make you look more interesting than you actually are.”

Scott ignored John’s choked-off laugh. “And one that note, I am going to bed. Goodnight, Thunderbird Five.”

“Goodnight,” two voices said in stereo from high above him. Scott shut down his screen and ambled off to sleep.


End file.
